


I've Missed Hope

by LunerSoul997



Series: To Hear Your Song Again [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Canon-Typical Violence, Light Angst, M/M, Steve is having a Bad Time okay, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunerSoul997/pseuds/LunerSoul997
Summary: Only one thing stands between him and the end. He sees it, and he feels the fire nestled next to his heart roar to life, smoke flooding his lungs, suffocating. Between him and the end stands his beginning, his heart, his immortal soul.Eyes, piercing, determined. The colour of arctic ice, his undoing. Hair lank and dead. The scent of blood and death clinging to every pore.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: To Hear Your Song Again [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031286
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW for substance use(?)
> 
> It's hard to explain

Fuck.

_Fuck._

"-I don't think he's the kind you save, he's the kind you stop." 

...

"I don't think I can do that."

He knows he can't

"Well, he might not give you a choice. He doesn't know you."

 _Might_ not?

There's hope?

He's missed hope.

....

"He will."

He hopes.

_Hope._

He knows he won't be able to stop him.

He couldn't.

He'd sooner drink belladonna gin.

...

If he did.

He'd drink it anyway.

...

"Gear up. It's time."


	2. Chapter 2

He hastily rubbed the powder on his teeth, hating the way it numbed his lips and gums. He didn't bother rolling down his sleeve, choosing to bite into the meat of his thumb instead.

With a whimper, the panic fled from his body. In its place stood numbness, his energy diverted to fighting the toxin in his blood. He took a deep breath and licked the wound closed, chastising himself for resorting to Code Red. 

He pushed past the physical discomfort, not looking forward to the hangover he'll get in an hour or so.

What was he doing?

Right, uniform.

_Get it together, Steve._

###

 _Last one,_ he promises himself. _One last helicarrier. One last mission._

Anything else might kill him.

He hurries down the stairs, promising himself, promising. 

Only one thing stands between him and the end. He sees it, and he feels the fire nestled next to his heart roar to life, smoke flooding his lungs, suffocating. Between him and the end stands his beginning, his heart, his immortal soul.

Eyes, piercing, determined. The colour of arctic ice, his undoing. Hair lank and dead. The scent of blood and death clinging to every pore.

 _Keep it together,_ he tells himself. _There's not enough time for your pathetic emotions._

"People are going to die, Buck," he says, almost automatically. 

The other man doesn't move. Doesn't blink.

"I can't let that happen," he says, voice cracking.

The other man doesn't react.

"Don't make me do this," he begs, vision blurring. _Get it together._

No response.

Steve throws his shield.

A dance, hit, block, hit, parry. He locks down his emotions and focuses on the ebb and flow of the fight, focuses on the brutality of it. A fight for victory, a harsh clash of wolf and wolf. They fight like the animals they turn into, savage and wild and with no regard for personal injury, minds set on a single goal. 

Don't let the other win.

They push one another off the platform, they fall, but not all the way down, stopped by another platform. He drops the chip on impact and curses himself, snatching it up. The other man slides into him and the collision pushes them onto the glass below. 

He drops the chip on the next blow. The other man stabs him, pushes the knife in deep and makes him almost grateful for the numbness brought on by the powder. He headbutts the other once, twice- stumbles away once released and pulls the knife out.

The other man makes a grab for the chip, he rushes over and grabs the man by the neck, lifting him into the air, snarling at him. He throws the other man down, holding him in a lock.

The other man growls and tries to free himself, but he just holds on tighter.

His eyes dart to the chip. "Drop it," he growls, peeling back his lips and bearing his teeth. His claws try to unsheathe, only to be stopped by his gloves. He snarls.

The other man tries to punch him, grunting in frustration because he can't reach. He doesn't drop the chip.

"Drop it!" He demands, applying more pressure to his shoulder.

A loud 'crack!' followed by a scream. 

He still doesn't drop it.

Fuck. 

Fuck! 

Steve flips them over, pulling the other man into a chokehold. "I'm so sorry," he whispers frantically. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Bucky," 

The other man sputters, trying to pry him off. Steve throws his leg over the metal arm, pinning it to the floor. He tightens his arms.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry..." Steve whispers over and over until the other man goes limp. He releases his hold and checks his pulse. Strong but irregular. Still alive.

 _Still alive,_ he reassures himself.

He snatches up the chip and begins climbing back up to the platform. He leaps at the bar and swings himself up. He'd barely taken two steps before something hit his thigh. He registers the 'bang!' a beat later, while he's falling.

He snarls and looks over his shoulder. The other wolf stands atop the glass, gun pointed directly at him. Steve scrambles up and pushes past the numb discomfort.

He jumps up and grabs hold of a metal rung, pulling himself up. He yelps as another shot hit his shoulder, his hand slipping. He pushes up with his feet and hand and pulls himself onto the platform.

He stumbles over to the console, numb fingers pulling the chip from his tac belt. 

"Thirty seconds, Cap," says the voice in his ear, causing him to flinch.

"Stand by," He pants.

Shaking hands move to snap the chip in place. "Charlie-"

Something cuts through his chest. 'Bang!'

He collapses to his knees. His head feels fuzzy, his skin cold. He must have lost a lot of blood.

He gasps for breath, blinking back tears and swallowing bile. _Get up, soldier,_ he snaps at himself.

He grits his teeth and stands up. Hands, trembling and cold, snap the chip into place. "Charlie lock," he growls.

"Okay Cap, get out of there," the voice in his ear commands.

Panting, numb, cold. He curls over the microphone in his glove. "Fire now."

"But Steve-"

"Do it!" He snaps. "Do it now."

He waits for her response. The floor shakes with the impact of the missiles. _Good enough._ The air ignites, and the sound of a hundred turrets firing is hell on his sensitive ears. He stumbles against the railing, grunting.

A scream rises above the hellish cacophony. The very same scream that plays in his nightmares, a broken record, replaying the worst day of his life.

He looks down. The other wolf had been pinned underneath a metal beam. He struggles against it, but it doesn't budge.

Almost on autopilot, he leaps off of the platform. He lands roughly on the beam, falling to the side. He pushes himself up and hops onto the glass, eyes flitting wildly between the man and the beam. Another explosion out on the haul throws him to the floor.

Panting, he pushes himself up. He grabs hold of the edge and heaves, straining to lift it. The other pulls himself out from under it. He drops it, panting, cold. 

The other man struggles to his feet. They look at each other.

"You know me," Steve says.

Bucky snarls, and Steve quickly brings his shield up, mere seconds before the metal fist connects with it. "No, I don't!"

Another tremor sends them to the floor.

"Bucky," Steve huffs, standing. "You've known me your whole life."

He isn't able to bring his shield up before Bucky backhands him. He can almost _hear_ his cheekbone fracture. Pain still eludes him. He's starting to regret the Code Red a lot less.

Another explosion. 

Steve gets back onto his knees. "Your name," he pants. "Is James Buchanan Barnes."

"Shut up!"

He grunts at the impact of fist on shield, falling on his back.

They both stumble to their feet, panting. Steve looks him in the eyes. Those eyes, storm grey and clouded with confusion, frustration, anger. 

The flame next to his heart calmly flickers in the dark of his chest, a guiding light, a symbol of his place in the world.

"I'm not gonna fight you," he says. He drops his shield, and it falls, falls, falls, into the river below. "You're my heart."

Bucky tackles him with a roar.

"You're my mission," he says, his fist connecting with Steve's face one, two, three, four times. He says it again, enunciating with punches. Steve makes no move to counter him. He winds his arm back to deliver another blow. He hesitates, panting.

"Then finish it," Steve chokes out, blood pooling in his mouth. "'Cause- I'm wit' yah 'till the end of the line."

Bucky, eyes wide, lowers his arm.

Steve fights the blackness, closing in, it would feel so good to let go. He can't, he reminds himself. He closes his eyes, _just for a second,_ he swears. He falls, falls, falls...

###

The first thing he hears is music.

He slowly opens his eyes. A white ceiling, green walls, medical equipment. His cheek aches, his lip throbs. Hospital, private room, armed guards outside.

What happened? He tries to remember. And he does. He remembers the mission, the fight, Bucky. Fuck, Bucky. It's unlikely he was captured. He's always had strong instincts, he was a survivor. He would have run.

 _Gunpowder, Peaches, Pine._ Sam. He turns his head, finding the man sitting and reading, a small cut just above his brow. 

"On your left," Steve croaks out, a reference to when they met. It seems like it had been years since then, instead of just a few days.

Sam smiles, a subtle uptick of his lips. Steve allows his eyes to slide closed once more.

Underneath Sam's scent was another. _Blood, Ozone, Steel, Gun oil._ a scent that was caked in violence and anguish. Natasha. 

She hadn't been here in a while and probably hadn't stayed long. Sam hadn't left, if the potency of his scent is any indication.

"How long have I been out?" 

"Two days," Sam says. "They gave you the _goood_ drugs."

"Mmm," Steve hums. Not good enough, according to his body. His muscles ached with the aftermath of the wolfsbane powder, nausea churning his gut. He can feel the gunshot wounds, threatening to tear him open at the smallest movement.

"They thought you'd be healed by now," Sam says.

Steve swallows. He probably would be, if not for the poison he'd self-administered less than seventy-two hours ago. He'd likely be feeling it for the rest of the week.

"Huh, weird," Steve says, opening his eyes.

Sam cocks a brow, seeming confused by Steve's lack of reaction. After a moment he asks, "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," Steve says, stretching as much as he can with his screaming muscles and gunshot wounds and tiny hospital bed. That is to say, not much.

"You took one hell of a beating."

"You should see the other guy," Steve mumbles, head lolling to the side.

Whatever Sam says next is drown out by a wave of exhaustion. He closes his eyes and lets the ocean overtake him.

###

_"You nervous?" Steve asks. Tomorrow, they were going on their first official mission as a team. The others had all gone to sleep already, but he and Bucky were still awake and alive with energy._

_The full moon lit up the camp in shades of white and grey. Every time Bucky moved his head, the moon sent waves of molten silver rippling through his hair and cast his face in soft shadows and delicate highlights. Steve's fingers itched for a pencil._

_"Nah," Bucky says flippantly. "Been there, done that, y'know? But, uh," He reached into his shirt and pulled a chain up and over his head, "For safekeeping," he says with a wink, handing Steve his dog tags._

_"Now that's_ definitely _against regulation."_

_Bucky shrugs minutely, his face softening. "I just don't wanna lose them."_

_Well, that just ain't fair. Steve slips the dog tags over his head with a huff that was more of a laugh. "Don't go makin' a habit outta this."_

###

"Where's the kitchen box!?"

"In the kitchen!"

"I _looked_ in the kitchen!" Clint exclaims.

"Well look _again!"_ Steve shouts.

Something thunked against the counter. A few seconds later, Clint cries, "Found it!"

"Where was it?!" Sam asks from the other side of the apartment.

"... The kitchen," Clint says.

Steve rolls his eyes. He turns back to his closet and kneels on the floor. Slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, he moves aside the small dresser. He pulls out his knife and clicks it open, prying up a floorboard.

He lifts a small box out of the cavity. It was made of dark-stained wood and had a latch cast in silver. Intricate patterns dance across the surface, lavender flowers and rowan berries sway gently in the breeze, a landscape of hills and grass lay just beyond them. Atop the nearest hill, a singular wolf stands tall and proud underneath the light of the full moon.

A funerary box. 

He carefully brushes off the dust and undoes the silver latch for the first time in almost three years. Inside, a pair of silver rings and two pictures of Bucky lay (one a photo, the other a drawing) underneath the dog tags. The silver moon shines up at him, radiating his scent, even after all these years.

He closes the box and latches it shut.

_Blood, Ozone, Steel, Gun oil._

"What's that?" Nat asks.

Steve sighs. "Just a memory."

Nat comes closer and kneels next to him. She gently pries the box from his fingers. He lets her.

"It's beautiful," she breathes.

"I was never very good at wood carving"

Nat looks up at him. "This says otherwise."

He shrugs sheepishly. It _was_ the better-made one. He'd had practice, after all.

She tries to undo the latch. It doesn't budge. She furrows her brow. "Is it stuck?"

"I didn't design it to open," he lied.

She shakes it lightly. Nothing rattles or clicks, of course. Steve had a very talented witch. 

"Still pretty," Nat says, giving it back to him.

"Thanks, Nat," Steve murmurs.

"You're welcome," Nat says before sighing. She stands. "Now, are you going to hide out in here all day or help us pack?"

"I'll be right out," Steve promises. With a nod, Natasha walks out, closing the door softly behind herself.

Steve undoes the latch. He walks over to his bedside table and picks up the delicate sprig of dried mint flowers. He carefully lays it inside the box before shutting it again. The latch slides closed with a satisfying 'click'.

###

"You alright from here?" Sam asks, looking around the small apartment.

"Yeah," Steve says. "I can handle it."

"Alright, man," Sam says. "I'll see you."

"Yeah," Steve says, giving the man a quick hug.

"I'm cool to come over, right?" Clint asks, sucking up a licorice lace like it was pasta.

Steve blinks. "Uh, sure."

"Sweet," Clint says, holding up his hand. With a roll of his eyes, Steve high-fives him.

Nat hugs him. "I'll see you Saturday."

They hadn't had plans for Saturday, but Steve doesn't doubt that they do now. Maybe she'll tell him about them later.

With a few more goodbyes, the humans leave him to his own devices. He closes the door on their retreating backs.

He looks around. Apparently one of his pack members was an interior designer, because holy fuck. 

The furniture was gone as he'd requested. The windows had been replaced, slightly bigger than he was used to. The wooden floors had also been replaced, the wood was a light cream colour and looked a lot less splintery then the old ones. There was a new radiator in the living room. The doorways, window sills, and archways had been repainted white. The wallpaper had been stripped and replaced, and the new paper was navy blue with a subtle diamond pattern. 

The kitchen tile had been replaced with light-coloured faux stone. The cabinets and counters had been replaced, as had the refrigerator and stove, and everything was white and black and chrome. The backsplash was blue-tinted tiles.

He moves into the bathroom. The tile was the same as the kitchen, and there was no wallpaper. However, the walls had been painted robin egg blue. The bathtub had been updated and now had a showerhead and curtain. The sink had also been updated and the dingy mirror that hung over it had been replaced.

He goes to the smaller bedroom next. The walls were also blue wallpaper, the floors the same light wood.

He moves to the last room, the large bedroom. It was the same wallpaper, the same floors, the same white trim. The weird thing was the piece of paper taped to the wall opposite the door.

Curiously, he peels it off the wall and flips it over.

_'Welcome home, Steve._

_Sincerely, Emily, Rebecca, Richard, Samantha, Joyce, Edith, and Milo'_

###

He sighs and knocks on the door before he can talk himself out of it. He fiddles with the object in his pocket, bouncing on his heels.

He waits. After a few moments, the door swings open.

Milo blinks. "Steve?"

"Hi, Milo. I know that I have no right to be asking this..." He pulls the object out of his pocket. "I need a favour."

"Steve," Milo sighs.

Steve flinches and looks up at the man. He'd been a good friend for the year Steve had lived in New York. He, like the rest of the pack, hadn't wanted Steve to leave. (And he had left anyway)

"You have every right."

Steve blinks, not having expected that. Hell, he hadn't even _hoped_ for that.

Milo rolls his shoulders. "You're pack. I may not be a wolf but I am married to one. Family is family, and family looks out for each other."

Steve gapes at the witch. "What have I ever done to earn your loyalty?" 

"Seriously?" Milo asks, as though it were a stupid question. Steve shrugs. Milo sighs, and holds up a hand, ticking up a finger, "You babysat the kids multiple times. You helped me get my dad into a good hospital when he was diagnosed. We haven't had a territory dispute in three years because non-pack wolves are so scared of your scent, even when you haven't re-marked it in years."

Steve sinks further into himself with every sentence, face blazing.

"So, yeah," Milo drawls, eyes daring Steve to dispute it. "I can enchant a necklace for you."

Steve blinks, mumbles something, shakes his head. Blinks again.

"I think you broke him," Milo's mate, Marie, comments from inside the apartment. 

Steve shook himself out of it and thanked Milo profusely. Milo waved him off every time, insisting that he _wanted_ to do this for him, and asking him to 'kindly fuck off' after a while.

Steve fucked off, biting his nails anxiously. He knew he wouldn't feel better until the tags were returned to him. He played with the idea of a Code Red but decided that it wasn't worth it. Code Reds were for an eleven on the anxiety scale and he was at a cool six (not to mention the multi-day hangover and mild but consistent anxiety that he'd have to deal with afterwards).

Instead, he began unpacking.


End file.
